


Tomorrow

by foolscapper



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (relating to child abuse), Addiction, Alternate Universe, Child Abuse, Detox, F/M, Gen, Weechesters, altered!sam, children in peril, dark themes all around, past trauma, powers!Sam, psychic powers, where things happen differently
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-28
Updated: 2015-11-28
Packaged: 2018-05-03 20:47:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5306231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolscapper/pseuds/foolscapper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Sammy burned instead of Mary?</p><p>... But what if he didn't?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sammy Will be Five Tomorrow

“You doin’ okay, Mary?” Ellen asks softly.

The bar is quiet, save for Joanna’s rambling — she’s just turned three, attitude through the roof, wandering over to Dean as he sits on the floor to visit her; he always seems to gravitate toward her, and Mary can’t help but wonder if it’s because he’s lonely, or if it’s a quiet need to be a big brother after being stripped so quickly of a younger sibling. She tries not to think that it hurts, because she wants to believe Dean can get passed what he’d seen all those years ago in their old house. She wants to believe it will all heal over: a scar, but a faint one.

For him, at least. She can’t afford to let Sammy go. Not after what had happened. Not after the fire, the smoke, the loss of innocent life that she should have protected. It was her job. It was what she walked away from this life for, and…

Ellen’s looking at her, eyes soft. “Mare-bear?”

She smiles softly at the nickname, rubbing a hand over her shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

Ellen had been there from the start  — ever since John had gone and crossed paths with the Harvelles. Bill was a good man, and Ellen was a wonderful friend. A mother. Someone who could imagine that pain, who could absorb it and feel that loss like a sharp knife in the heart. Mary couldn’t help but confide in her, even after her and John had become estranged in his obsession. Even after she’d ran him off, when he asked her why he wouldn’t teach Dean the trade.

Even after all this… letting Dean become what her family had been… what John’s turned into… It’s something she couldn’t allow. John leaving, looking into the thing that could have taken her boy? That’s one thing. But shoving a shotgun in a nine-year-old’s hands and expecting him to stand attentive, to eventually go out night after night and either come back bloody or drunk? It’s _terrifying_. Even more so when she can see John’s face in Dean’s.

He couldn’t crumble into what his father was. She loves John, even if she sometimes hates him, but… Dean could not be the man his daddy’d been when he walked into the hunter’s life. She breathes a sigh at the thought, and Ellen sits down at the bar herself, reaching out and tucking a stray hair behind Mary’s ear.

“Don’t think it’s nothing, hon,” Ellen says. “I got a two dollar bill that says John’s gone and done something stupid again. You’re upset.”

She smiles and laughs softly, but her eyes are sad as she glances to Dean. He’s got Jo sitting on his thigh, showing her how to clap her hands in a rhythm. It’s good to see him smile. She lives for those moments, even if it’s bittersweet sometimes. It’s been five years and the loss weighs heavy. Sometimes Dean asks about Sammy. Most days, though, he just looks at the pictures with a solemn stare.

Mary leans into Ellen’s shoulder, accepting a small drink poured for her.

She  _hates_ this stuff. But the burn is good tonight.

“Tomorrow… Tomorrow’s Sam’s birthday,” she says, voice low. She tries not to let it tremble, but her eyes sting despite her stubbornness. She hasn’t sobbed openly since the night of the fire, and she doesn’t plan to do it now. She has to move forward, but the past is only five years away, and her baby’s tiny voice always returns to her in May. “It’s Sam’s birthday, and he would have started kindergarten this year, and — John  _left_. Didn’t… say why, didn’t leave any details. Just. Left. I know we’re not — together like we used to be anymore, but…”

Some nights, she really could hate him.

“Oh, sweetie,” Ellen pulls her close, chin against the crown of her blonde head. Mary closes her eyes and breathes a sigh when lips press against her hairline, all sweetness and care and compassion. It’s so strange, to watch Ellen threaten hunters out of her bar one moment, and then tenderly comfort someone the next. “Your fella is an asshole. I’m sorry about that. It was an important day.”

“Mom?”

Mary glances over quickly to Dean, eyes wet but tears not shed, and she’s quick to wipe away the lingering trace of them. Dean’s looking at her with that tentative expression, and she could really kick herself for making him worry like that. She just smiles and puts her hands on his cheeks. “I’m alright, angel.”

She’ll explain to him when it’s Sam’s birthday, officially. They’ll remember him, they’ll love him, and then… they’ll keep trying to move onward. It’s all they can hope to do, save for pray for the day that John’s rampage of revenge ends with the death of the monster that had dissected their family like this, left their insides torn open and exposed. Ellen ruffles Dean’s hair, is about to make her own remarks when the phone rings.

It’s John. Ellen bites a “don’t you use that tone with me, Winchester”, but ultimately it’s not for her — she gives Mary a look before the corded phone is in her hands. As Dean returns to Joanna’s side, helping her stand up to adjust her crooked ponytail, John’s voice is rumbling, harsh, urgent.

“Mary. Mary, oh  _god_. I found him. I  _found_ him.”

She closes her eyes, throat tight. “The yellow-eyed man?”

“No, Mary — Sam. I, I found Sammy. He’s alive, and I know where he is, Mary. He’s  _alive_. He’s fucking  _alive_.”

It feels like the world around her shatters, splinters into pieces.

The flames in the recesses of her mind recede.

Sammy will be five tomorrow.

 _Sammy_.

She cries out in disbelief and joy and anger and pain and fear, and Ellen has to grab onto her tightly before she can crumple to her knees.


	2. That's a Good Year

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary and Dean travel to John's safehouse to see what is left of Sammy. Dean takes some matters into his own hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to do a Dean POV follow-up, because I enjoy the idea of an AU Dean who was raised by his mom instead of John, in a sense.

It had taken them a long time to travel from Ellen’s bar in Nebraska to this rundown little safe house Dad had kept around in case of emergency — Dean knows Dad’s a nervous wreck like that sometimes, that he seeks temporary reprieve by being extraordinarily cautious. Mom gets mad that he doesn’t seek a lot of comfort in his family, but Dean’s gotten used to his absence more and more, so it doesn’t really faze him anymore.  
  
Mary and John leave Dean in the main room that is sort-of-almost-a-normal-living-room to fidget nervously with his army men, leaving the situation vague enough when they explain it to him; they know he’s nine, old enough at least that he deserves  _some_  semblence of truth about why they’re here, but Mary doesn’t seem sure what else to tell him other than that Sammy is alive;  _alive_ , taken away from them, but now taken  _back_. The idea had made Dean nearly lightheaded, stomach twisting, because  it meant maybe things could be better. Maybe Sammy would be okay. Maybe Dad would stay with them more, drink less, hunt less. Maybe, maybe, maybe… Maybe Sammy would like him. He had always sat in the silence with old family photos when his mind wandered from time to time, wondering what his brother would have thought of him. What toys he’d like, or… or games they could’ve played. Or maybe he would’ve pissed him off a lot. Dean’s not sure.   
  
In the other room, Mary’s voice is raising, hysterical and angry.

“You locked our son in a  _panic room_?! What is  _wrong_ with you?! He’s five! He’s  _ours_!”

“Mary, please,” John says, voice strained. “We don’t know how much of him is even Sam. I… He was taken by evil, evil things. This isn’t just… I  _need_ to perform the tests on him, make sure he’s even our little boy anymore. Have him looked at. I can’t even get anywhere near him without him losing it. He’s got something  _wrong_ with him. ”  
  
“Something  _wrong_ with him? Are you out of your mind?!” Mary can barely contain herself, voice thundering in its reserved tremble. “Of course there’s something  _wrong_ here; he was kidnapped! We don’t — we don’t  _know_ what they could have done to him, John. They could have isolated him, left him alone, they could have — ”  
  
She cuts herself off, and Dean isn’t sure what she was gonna say, but it makes his stomach hurt anyway. He peeks around the corner, willing himself to not rush in and wedge himself between Mom and Dad, when Mary begins to cry silently as she stares at John. Dad looks like he wants to cry, too. And then Dean wants to cry, because he thinks about little Jo and how she’s so small and sweet, and how Sam is  _barely_ a little older than her. He doesn’t want Sam to be in pain. He wants him to just… come home.  
  
“… He won’t talk,” John says. He stops long enough to open a face-sized window beside the panic room door, giving himself a moment to check on what’s inside there (Sammy) before closing it again. “He’s not safe, Mary. Clawed me up the whole way here, wouldn’t stop screamin’… tried to bite through my skin and…” He stops, swallows. “He kept screaming for _blood_. It’s the only thing he’s said the whole time I’ve had him. I needed to put him in the sigil room… He — he moves shit with his mind. Nearly took my  head off with my own knife when I tried to scoop him up and get him  _out_ of there.” The room is silent, Mary’s eyes boring into John’s. His father breathes through his nose. “Look. Truth is, Mary… I don’t know if he’s human anymore.”  
  
The truth of the matter hits them the moment Sam begins to scream, voice high and enraged.  
  
His little fists pound violently on the door.  
  
“Blood! Blood!  _Blood_!”  
  
Nothing’s ever so simple.

* * *

Mom takes it real hard when she isn’t able to face her youngest son yet, but Dean thinks maybe there’s some part of her that’s (still) like a hunter, some part that understands Dad’s right and Sammy’s not… someone to be around right now. Regardless of what must be done, Mary’s broken up, slouched on one of the couches, carding her fingers through Dean’s spiked locks to calm them both. Dean thinks about how they slid in food and water, how it feels all wrong, like the jail shows on TV. He mumbles, “We can’t leave him in there… There’s gotta be something we can do for him…”  
  
Mary swallows hard. Dean can tell without looking that she’s holding her tears, because she gets it often enough that he can hear it in her voice — even the slightest shake. Mom’s strong, but Dean’s observant, and he prides himself on that with his parents. She says, “We will. We’ll help him, Dean. But we have to wait for Missouri, okay…? She’ll… She’ll be able to read him, tell us if it’s okay. If he’s…” She trails off, but forces a small smile for his sake. “We’ll get him back, okay? But he might… He might need help. He might be hurt really bad, Dean.”  
  
“Like, in the heart,” Dean says quietly. Mary’s hand curls around Dean’s tightly.  
  
“Like in the heart,” she echoes.  
  
John watches out the window, arms folded. He looks like he’s about to fall over if Dean’s honest, exhaustion etched in his face, which isn’t exactly a new look, but… But he looks kind of scared, too. Everyone’s coiled up like Jack-in-the-boxes, itching to throw open the panic room door and see what sort of thing is left from the fire and the smoke and the tears. But Dean thinks that’s kind of  _unfair_ , isn’t it? Sam’s still a kid. He’s just a little person, and his hands probably can’t even wrap around the grip of a gun properly, and he probably can’t tie his shoes or brush his own teeth. He could have lost some baby teeth by now, actually, and suddenly the nagging concern strikes him that whoever took him not only hurt him, but forgot he needs to know so much in so  _short_ a time. Dean lays there at night with his mother dozing next to him, plucking at his blanket, thinking of how much Sam’s gonna have to catch up on. Did he know how to string a kite? Or how to ride bicycles? Even a tricycle would be alright. He wouldn’t tease about that kind of thing, because Sam’s still probably not very coordinated. He probably falls over a lot, like the other kids that show up to visit the Roadhouse. Joanna is clumsy as heck. Sam’s probably fallen and scraped himself up in the time he’s been locked away.  
  
Dean doesn’t like it.  
  
Just like he doesn’t like that it’s Sam’s birthday, and nobody’s there for him. There to tell him he’s been here for five whole years, that it’s good he’s back. He knows Mom wants to go in there, say something. He knows she’s itched to rush in and hold Sammy just like she used to when he was smaller, but something scares her, holds her back. Is it because Dad thinks he could be…  _not_ Sam? What gave it away, that he’d think that? Fur? Sharp fangs? Long, ugly claws? What was it that made Sam someone else entirely?  
  
He slides away from his mother’s side, padding stealthfully through the back of the room with his backpack in one hand; he knows where all the creaks are, so he’s not worried about alerting his Dad’s crazy spidey senses. And after all, Dean’s been here a few times, like when Dad messed up on a hunt and they needed to make sure he wasn’t followed or whatever, so the layout is easier to nagivate than it could’ve been. By the time he’s standing in front of the panic room door, he’s shaking faintly for more reasons than he can really vocalize. He envisions a  _looming_ figure with red eyes and  _sharp_ , white teeth: a dark mimcry of the baby he barely remembers. But then John’s voice suddenly booms in the back room — _“Dean!!”_  —  and the panic is fresh enough that his resolve to move forward is instantaneous.  
  
Dean will never say it’s one of his more brilliant ideas, but he opens the panic room door, slides in, and pulls down the lock on the inside, high above his head.  
  
“Dean!! What are you doing?!  _Dean_! Fuck!” John’s muffled voice yells on the other side.  
  
Dean turns and looks through orange-tinted light, every muscle in him locked with fear. The air is stifling; there’s the (now cracked) plate of food, licked clean and white on the floor by his feet. Clutching his pack close to him, he starts forward toward the outer edge of the square room, where he finds Sam — Sam, a huddled, filthy figure, nearly as tiny as Jo, his face pressed into the corner like he’s trying to melt into it. The sweaty head covered with wild, dark hair whips around as his brother  _looks_ at him, and Dean holds his breath. Sam’s eyes are… not dead, but they’re not much else. Watchful, but unafraid. He doesn’t have long claws or fur, or red eyes. He’s still got baby fat in his face, actually. His hands are  _really_ small. Dean sits down slowly in the middle of the room like a man facing a crocodile, hands uncoordinated and trembling as he opens his backpack. Mom’s calling to him in a distant, other world.  
  
“Sorry, Mom,” he says with something crossed between defiant exasperation and earnesty, and then holds up a box of twinkies he’d eaten half of during the drive up. He makes quick work of tearing off the clear packaging and stacking the treats like they’re Lincoln logs. He tries not to think about how Sammy’s got a lot of purple marks on his arms. He instead focuses on how twinkies are a prize anyone should enjoy. Kids deserve these kinds of things, for having to put up with everything else. “Hey, um. Sammy. Happy birthday. You’re five, you know. That’s a good year.”  
  
He holds his breath yet again (it’s easy to forget you’re doing it, really), and watches as the intense gaze across the room moves from him to the food, the silence absorbed by his parents banging on the doors.  
  
“It’s okay,” Dean affirms. He pulls out a toy car, too, in case Sam’s into cars. Dean is, anyways. And one of those cheap foam footballs. He’s got more if he needs it, if he’s desperate enough for it. “You’ll be alright. We’re gonna help you, you know. Mom wants you to get out so she can be a mom for you,  _too_ , y'know? She never got to make you breakfast or read to you or anything. It really hurts her a lot, makes her sad sometimes. But I got you.”  
  
Sam slowly twists his scrawny figure around until he’s on his knees, crawling over slowly, and — maybe that’s why Dad’s worried he’s not human, because he moves like a nervous animal. His heart feels like it’s gonna leap out of his chest when Sam eventually sits back with his legs tucked under him, grabbing for the half-assed pastries and tearing into them ravenously; he  _must_ be hungry, because they gave him a full plate earlier. “Don’t get sick,” Dean winces. “Gettin’ sick on your birthday is all kinds of jacked up.”  
  
Sam’s eyes glance up suddenly, all stone-hard and  _sharp_ , like he’s peering right into Dean’s mind, and it takes everything in Dean not to look away from it. Now that Sam’s nearly close enough to reach out and touch, Dean sees little flashes of the baby in the boy’s face. He also sees flecked, dry blood on Sammy’s chin and gray under his eyes. And he can’t help but feel his stomach lurch a bit, when he realizes it’s a lot like when Mom had the flu. He might be  _sick_. They left him in here all alone.  _Sick_ and  _alone_. “I’m sorry. I’m real sorry, Sam. You wanna, um. Play?”  
  
He doesn’t particularly expect Sam to friggin’  _lunge_  instead of answer— then fiery pain rips through his face and arms when Sam screams and scratches him, dirty fingernails leaving red marks over pale skin; the keening, angry yelling rattles Dean’s eardrums, but Sam’s shockingly light and weak as he attacks him. It’s just a little kid freaking out, Dean thinks. His brother is in the middle of trying to pull his hair and poke him in the eyes when he takes one of Sam’s wrists in each hand and holds him firmly still. One of the lightbulbs pops, glass pouring down to the left of them and piling into gleaming sharp piles, but Dean doesn’t let himself think about that right now. They can replace a lightbulb later. Could go to Walmart.  
  
“ _No_ ,” Dean lectures. “ _No_.  _No_ scratching. Scratching is  _bad_. No, Sammy.  _No_.” And Sam just growls in frustration, kicking Dean as hard as he can in the stomach, and yeah it definitely hurts a little, but Dean just keeps his grip steady while his brother whines and spits on his shirt and keeps that strangely blank expression all the while. It’s so blank, it’s hard to even tell Sam’s angry, if Dean’s honest. Maybe they broke his brother a little, made him unable to show how he feels now. Or maybe Sam’s  _not_ angry. Maybe he just thinks it’s normal to scratch and bite and hurt people. Dean tries not to think about how someone who shouldn’t have been a brother or a dad or a mom to him might have showed him how to do that, how to feel that. So he smooths his hand softly through Sam’s hair like Mom does for his, as Sam sags a bit into Dean’s lap, drained and breathing heavy through his nose. Dean’s cheek throbs a bit.  
  
“Good boy, Sam. That’s good. No hitting. Look at the car. See the car?” He knows how to talk to make Jo like him. Maybe  _Sam’ll_ like him, too. Maybe Sam sees he’s a kid, and he’s okay, that he’s not gonna hurt him; the tuckered out boy nestles himself close to Dean, body  _too_ warm as he buries his face in Dean’s shirt and closes his eyes. One of the hands fisted in Dean’s shirt fumbles to grip at the toy car, though Sam just sort of flings it into the nearest wall the moment he realizes he’s not into cars, like it’s all a second thought. “Wow. Don’t gotta throw my wheels around.” That’s alright, though; he’s just jokin’ around. Dean curls his legs and arms around his brother just like Joanna likes, frowning into Sam’s hair.   
  
He smells like smoke and copper.  
  
“It’s okay, Sammy,” Dean breathes. They stay like this for a while.  
  
When he finally unlocks the door and steps out, his parents are nearly running into him in a blind panic, but he just side-steps them with a frown, because he’s got Sam wedged around him like a puzzle piece, and if they go flying in all crazy, they’re gonna wake him up and freak him out. And then Dean’ll be pissed, ‘cus he got him calmed down. “Are you — what happened? Are you…” Mary starts, but maybe the sight of it catches up with her. They both sort of stare in disbelief at him for a moment like they’re trying to read potential mirages in a desert, Mary’s eyes full of tears and John’s full of distrust (and something else that’s more vulnerable, but Dean doesn’t have time to figure that out right now). They both look down and take in the pink welts on Dean’s face and arms as he half-heartedly shrugs.  
  
“He had a tantrum. S'okay. I think he’s just not feeling good.”  
  
Sam’s face shifts against his collarbone, eyes shifting behind thin lids as he dreams.  
  
Dean smiles, gives Sam’s goodness his blessing. “It’s gonna be fine. He’s not a monster; he’s just a dirty kid with lots of crappy manners.”  
  
And  _nobody_ is gonna be putting him back into the dark room again, unless they’re gonna throw him in there with him. 


	3. Just Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just don’t die,” Dean whispers into wet hair, sweaty himself from the furnace that is his baby brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary POV. Please be warned, a child is in a lot of pain in this chapter.

**Mary has a hard time around John** — more specifically, she has a hard time dealing with how completely and utterly unconvinced John is of Sam’s humanity **.**   _He’s not a monster,_  Dean had told them, rocking that tired five-year-old back and forth in his arms, and she believed him. She could feel the relief pouring through her, threatening to overwhelm as she’d stooped down and pulled both Dean and Sam close to her chest; she’d thought  _yes — yes, he’s not a monster. He’s your brother. He’s home_. But even as she had ushered Dean to lay Sam in the bed of one of the cleaner guest rooms in the safehouse, John had receded into a corner to watch the scene with focused, conflicted eyes. One thing Mary could say for certain: she had some kind of love for John, one that hadn’t been broken by their shattered family life, but she would  _not_ hesitate to slam the butt of a rifle in his face if he tried to hurt their boy. She sees the logic. Sees why he wants to perform the more hands-on testing. She simply doesn’t care.  
  
“You’re endangering our boy, Mary… This just — isn’t safe for him to be around,” John says, nodding to Dean, who’d fallen asleep beside Sam’s curled little body.

Mary looks up to him, mouth a thin line. Sometimes she can hardly see John anymore, the John she’d fallen for. He smells like gunpowder and liquor more than he does oil and cologne. “Spoken by the man who wanted him to become a hunter? Stop talking about your baby like he’s some creature out in the woods.”  
  
John nearly slams a fist down on the table. Likely  _doesn’t_ because it would stir the children, and Mary would have to kick him out of the room entirely then; it wouldn’t be the first time, and she certainly doubts it’d be the last. He’s got nowhere to dispel his pent-up frustration, so he just looks at her and lets that aura plume off his squared shoulders like a forest fire. No, she doesn’t see the man she’d married before the fire; she sees a stranger, a hunter that is just passing through. It’s a sad thing: a reminder that she could never turn back to that life, for fear that it would take what little was left of her. Ignoring him for a moment, she draws the rag up from the cool basin of water, running it over Sammy’s head. His fever is so high, and she’s nearly ready to call a doctor — there surely has to be one that can treat on behalf of a hunter… but she’s nervous to have them see her son and assume the worst.  
  
After all, where there is one John, there are many, many more.  
  
But Missouri had been called.  _Missouri_ , she  _trusts_. And she could only pray to God that she would be able to figure out what’s wrong with her baby boy. Because if they had gotten this far just to lose him now… She curls her hand around his, and his fingers flex. He’d only stopped screaming and choking a few hours ago.  _Blood,_  he mumbles — whines — hoarsely, sounding young and broken, and it makes her stomach clench with icy lead. John doesn’t move from his isolation, eyeing the boy with that same grim look. “He could be possessed by something… Could be a trap.”  
  
“None of the sigils have bothered him, John. This water is blessed, and his skin didn’t react with silver,” she quickly bites back. “Stop it.”  
  
He does. He stops and wanders to the other side of the bed, sitting in the heavy recliner there and resting his arm along the side of Dean. Away from Sam. Mary knows it’s simply a silent rebuttal, a way of telling her he’s prepared to protect their child, and it makes her want to scream at him. Because so what if Sam isn’t normal? So what if he’s something hunters would try to hunt? He’s theirs. And she’s more than willing to be that hypocrite, to be the one who accepts Sam wholeheartedly, because it was their responsibility to protect him. They  _failed_ him. They failed him in too many ways to put to paper, to say out loud. She failed Sam. And John is failing Sam even still.  
  
She hopes he’ll come around. She has no qualms with picking up Dean and Sam and walking through that door without him. She has Ellen and Bill, and that’s all she needs right now: just them, and Dean, and Sammy. Small Sam, who’s shuddering and writhing; she places her pale hand on his belly and feels the pain vibrating through him. His pulse is fast. His hair is drenched. She holds his hand in-between hers and puts his weakly curled fingers against her forehead. “Sammy… It’s okay. It’s okay, we’re going to help you. I promise.”  
  
John looks at her like she’s determined to walk a minefield blindfolded.  
  
Hours later, when Dean’s awakened by Sam’s violent thrashing, Missouri arrives. Mary’s pushing down on Sam’s chest gently to keep him from moving, the veins in her child’s face blackish blue on a translucent face — a glass flies from the table and shatters against the wall, and Sam’s got his face tilted back, mouth open in a near soundless scream as he convulses. It’s too much for Dean, who stands in the corner trying to wipe his tears away, looking like the child he actually is. And Mary isn’t strong enough to stop herself from crying with him, because there’s pain in Sam’s glossy eyes when they roam the area. Looking for something. Not for them, but  _something_. Then he reaches out and latches onto Mary’s arm, sinking his teeth into her wrist in an attempt to break the skin and drink ravenously from her. She pulls away with a row of teeth marks stark against her skin ( _no_ ), John aims his rifle (no, no,  _no_ ), and Mary throws herself in front of the keening body with desperation turned cold fury in her eyes ( _ **no!**_ ).  
  
“ _Don’t_!!”  
  
“Mary,  _goddammit_ ,” John chokes, tears dripping freely. “He’s suffering and he’s not Sam anymore — you can’t make me watch this! He’s gonna die and try to take  _you_ with him, so let me just — ” But a hand shoves John aside, throwing him off balance as he whips around to see Missouri, scowling and sweating, her eyes full of determination and pain.  
  
Dean rushes from the corner to his mother, freckled face red as he holds Sam’s other shoulder for her, trying not to bawl.  
  
“You put that damn gun down now, Winchester,” Missouri commands. She thrusts a finger against John’s chest, enough to bruise, while Mary takes note that her eyes are wet and tired, as if just standing in the  _room_ is a great weight heaped on her own personal gravity. “And you sit down before I make you. You call me down here, have me endure this child’s grief and pain — and you plan to  _shoot_ him? Put that thing away so I can help your boy. Unless you plan to put a bullet in his head before I can even see what’s wrong with him? You hunters and your trigger fingers.  _Sit_.”  
  
Everything in John’s posture is defiance, but he sits.  _Nobody can deny Missouri,_ Mary thinks. Everyone knows better. When the black woman finally makes her way to them and leans over Sam, she finds him with his eyes rolled back in his head, something misty and black playing at the corners of them. It terrifies Mary, because it’s new and toeing the line of human, but Missouri simply hums as if she’s a doctor checking a heartbeat. Nobody misses the way Sam stills when the psychic presses her palm against his forehead. Tears drip down into the shells of Sam’s ears as he moans.  
  
“You poor, poor little thing. You poor boy. It’s a good thing you called me; he wouldn’t have made it to tomorrow morning on his own strength, at this rate.” Mary tries not to think about that, because it’s too much, this knowledge that she and Dean could have so easily been curled around a cold, empty body. Instead she rubs her eyes and strengthens her resolve while Missouri feels along Sam’s neck, her thumbs brushing against his youthful cheeks. “Fear not, John, this child is completely human. Your boy is starved for a supernatural drug, and he’s suffered without a doubt in my mind to the point where he’ll take some love to get on the right track again, but he’s still just a child. I can read him as clear as anything.”  
  
Mary breathes out, soft and thankful.  
  
 _Thank you, God._  
  
“Are you gonna fix him?” Dean asks. His expression isn’t quite hopeful, more pleading for a miracle. Mary had seen him praying earlier, too, hands clasped tight at Sam’s bedside. Missouri replies by running a hand over Dean’s hair, a small smile gracing her face. The energy within her son must be incredible, Mary’s mind wanders, if she’s looking tired already.  
  
“I’ll do what I can. I can carry some of that psychic energy, transfer it from him to me… He’s seeing things somethin’ awful, and it’s putting a strain on his little body. I think if we can get him through the next few days and I take a little of that pain away a bit at a time; we could ween him off whatever poison they’ve left burning through him. He needs fluids and to be kept stable, but…”  
  
But it’s manageable.  
  
From there, it’s a difficult night. A difficult  _few_ nights, falling into a week. Mary finds very little in the way of sleep, helping Missouri cope with her own sickness while tending to Sam’s as well. Missouri is determined to hush her up and send her back to her son, but Dean’s there with Sam, and he’s good with him. And Mary owes Missouri the world, right now. Owes her whatever she can offer. When the woman realizes Mary isn’t going to listen to reason, she gives in and at least reports that it’s going well. He’ll likely be sickly for a while, because it’s a mark so deep, it’s on his soul; it’s something that will take time to fix, time that they have to be willing to give. And he’ll be  _angry_ — angry and bewildered, his world thrown off completely. Mary couldn’t even imagine what it felt like, to be that young and that confused, that exhausted, that thirsty. It has to be hellish.  
  
They’ve taken anything heavy or breakable from the room, leaving Sam with nothing else to throw in his grief and agony ( _throw_   _with what? with his mind? **how**?_ ). He takes advantage of Dean’s clingy nature by biting him on the shoulder, but Dean is gentle in the way he reprimands and scolds; he only loses his patience once that Mary sees — but then Sam sobs deep, awful sounds, and Dean’s rushing back over to cuddle close to the overheated body, uttering guilty apologies.  
  
“Just don’t die,” Dean whispers into wet hair, sweaty himself from the furnace that is his baby brother. “Please don’t die. We just got you back, Sammy. Don’t die.” And Sam balls his fists into Dean’s shirt and wriggles until he’s nearly burrowed in Dean’s rib cage. It’s two in the morning the next day when Mary lays her head down and watches Dean sponge Sam again with cold water, that she finally reaches over to still him.  
  
“We’ve already wiped him down, baby. You can rest, okay? Come with us.”  
  
It takes a lot of ushering, but Dean lays down, Sam between the two of them. He stares into Mary’s eyes over the peak of Sam’s wavy brown hair.  
  
“It sucks to be sweaty,” Dean murmurs. “He smells real. Like a real little kid. I don’t want him to die, Mom.”  
  
She reaches out and pulls Dean in close, holds both of her sons. Wrinkling her nose with eyes gleaming, wet but proud, she replies, “He won’t, Dean. He’ll pull through. I know he will. He’s a Winchester and a Campbell, and that means he’s too strong to give up. He was waiting for us to bring him  _back_ , Dean… He’s our family. Never forget that. I know it’s — What your father says…”  
  
“He’s wrong,” Dean says simply, nodding. “I know he’s just tryin’ to be a hunter, but he’s wrong. About Sam.”  
  
“Yes,” she says softly. “He’ll understand. He just needs time.”  
  
“Blood…?” Sam croaks between them, halting any words left in their throats. And then to their surprise, the boy shimmies to sit up on shaking arms, his dazed stare drifting between Dean and Mary. They hold their breath, similar eyes watching wide and hopeful as Sam lazily leans against Dean — like he’s wearing heavy weights, his bedhead and pale skin making him a sad little sight — and when he tries to bite Dean’s arm again to suckle at flesh he plans to tear open, Dean gives him a soft little push.  
  
“ _No_ , Sammy,” Dean says, ushering Sam to accept a cup of apple juice instead. Sam gulps it all down and curls back up between them, shivering and moaning but calm. Tired. Pliant. She watches him drift off, and then Dean next, then plays with her youngest’s hair. Something like hope fills the empty, once gutted cavity of her chest when she glances down and finds Sam quietly sucking his thumb.  
  
The mattress only dips heavier the  _next_ night, when John spoons up behind her (after a long and quiet talk with Missouri that Mary dare not intrude on). He tucks his chin on the top of her head, his beard scratchy and full, the action flooding her mind with memories of a distant world. She misses the days where they would hold each other just out of love instead of necessity, back when things were easy and they shared the burdens in their heads. She misses making sure Dean was fast asleep before slipping under the covers, instead of her seeking John out in an old motel, of giving in for the night and returning home confused and sore and emotionally drained. Maybe things would get better. Maybe now things could change for the better. Maybe…  
  
It’s a tense silence before he finally rumbles, “… M'sorry, Mary.”  
  
 _‘Sorry’._ It doesn’t feel like enough. He pointed a gun at her baby.  _Their_ baby. She ought to break his nose.  
  
Instead her eyes flutter shut, hands curling more around Sam.  
  
“Sleep with your family, John,” she murmurs. No judgement for now, no anger. Just _… sleep._ John closes his eyes and breathes her in, and they all sleep in the bed, their arms curled around each other.  
  
It feels like how it should have always been.  
  
She’s awakened the next morning by the sound of Dean grumbling in his sleep; not unusual, but the sight that she cracks her eyes open to is a new one. Sam’s sitting up beside his brother, shoving at his arm over and over and over, and it’s so much like an annoying little brother that she has to bite her lip and hold her breath. This feels like a moment she can’t afford to let ago, can’t afford to blink at for fear she’ll miss something crucial — something lost that she’s found. Sam’s sweat isn’t ringing the collar of his shirt, and some color’s returned to his face, even with the red blush painted on each cheek; she sees the gears in his head working, working, working. Shoves Dean’s arm again with a high little grunt.  
  
Dean finally rolls over, eyeing his brother for a long moment. Without another word between either of them, he gives Sam a full cup of lukewarm water. Sam drinks until he has to gasp for a breath, and Dean watches. Then Sam lays back down with a wet chin and a shudder, one of his feet tucked around Dean’s splayed leg and his head cushioned on Dean’s arm; Dean smooths a sheet over them. “Just sleep, Sammy,” Dean mumbles, eyelids drooping. “Just sleep.”  
  
Her boys sleep on, and she rubs John’s knuckles lightly, knowing by the squeeze of his fingers alone that he is watching, too.  
  
Maybe it really is a miracle. 


	4. Little Omen Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This boy isn’t even aware he’s baring a small piece of his soul, a little remnant of the rotted roots that had grounded him before John’s arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Missouri POV, then Dean. I had some major writer's block at the time of writing this one. 
> 
> Hopefully it sounds okay!

Missouri is damn well exhausted from hauling Sam — Sammy, Dean usually says — Winchester back from the near-dead. The little thing’s barely lucid through most of his withdrawals, and she can’t say she’s much better off through the ordeal; that’s what comes with being a psychic, she supposes. Usually it’s pricey readings that are half-bent truths or hopeful lies, but sometimes she’s got herself a situation where another psychic’s life’s in her hands. And yes, Sam Winchester is without a doubt something you’d call psychic. On her way to the safe house, she’d had his garbled thoughts try to force their way into her head, and it only strengthened the closer she got to the front door. Left her sweating and weary. Now, she’s got cramps and has the shakes, and she swears if John Winchester doesn’t stop  _pacing_ around on these rickety-ass floors, she’s going to _break her foot off_ —  
  
 _Blood, blood, blood —_ Sam’s thoughts weep. Poor little doll. It’s the only real tangible word there is. The other thoughts are more so compulsions, needs. It’s hard to explain how instinct needs no such thing as words. They’re simply a construct, a means to an end so that we’re all not so lonely in life. Talking. She doesn’t need that, with him. She simply needs to feel, not hear, not see. He’s feeling hungry and sick, and she feels it, too.

  
But time heals even these sorts of wounds; she feels the evil dripping out of him on his forehead and out his eyes and sometimes from his mouth, and she knows at a certain point that he’s no doubt live. And thank god, when the fever does break and taper off. She arises one morning, and if it weren’t for her keen abilities as they were, she would have leaped out of her skin at the sight of the five-year-old standing in her doorway, staring blankly at her.  
  
Poor child looks like he belongs in The Omen. His ability to be human is hindered by the cruel images he’s so far kept nearly locked away from her (but she feels them, feels the doors locked and the numbing world kept behind them), and his social skills — well, they’re a wreckage. She sits up in her bed with a small little smile as he continues his long gaze. He’s trying to read her back, she recognizes. This is the limited way he knows how to handle people. He reads them, reads the feelings, the moods, sees images. She and him share a long moment where neither of them say anything, as she offers the image of Mary Winchester smiling over him. She offers Dean’s grateful little  _‘Sammy’_ , a sound that surely the boy will at least feel some sort of connection to.  
  
Sam sends her the image of a dripping red wrist and a room in an old abandoned house, with a rocking chair and a small bed with rough wool blankets. She sees yellow eyes peer into what feels like her very soul, and it takes her aback, the air yanked out of her lungs as she puts a hand to her chest. “Oh, child,” she manages. This is something she’ll have to talk about with John and Mary, she knows. This boy isn’t even aware he’s baring a small piece of his soul, a little remnant of the rotted roots that had grounded him before John’s arrival. She has a feeling that maybe John is already aware of some, if not… perhaps all… of this information. The thought is unsettling, but she could see how it’d make him even more of a pain in the ass. She can smell the hunter’s fear on him, as thick as that nasty after-scent of liquor.  
  
Sam blinks, as if he’s contemplating the scent himself. He’s good at latchin’ onto things. Thoughts and moods.  
  
“Sammy!” Dean calls from down the hall, frustrated as he rushes over. “I told you, you can’t go runnin’ off!”  
  
Missouri rubs her face. She reads Dean — the boy’s relieved Sam hadn’t left out a window or door. What a hawk, that child is. She’s surprised that he hasn’t nailed down the windows yet, with all the hub-bub he’s throwing around. She replies for Sam, since he has no mind to reply. “Don’t you worry too much about him; he’s doing much better.”  
  
It’s been a week; one hopes he’d be. The child’s still a bit unsteady on his feet, tripping over them like the blood had helped keep him more agile (she isn’t surprised); his body likely won’t be the same, now that he’s had that poison inside him, but this is the best of a terrible situation. Now if only she could  _understand_ just what was it about that blood he so craved that made him different. What was it? It’s a riddle, and damn her if she’s not a bit put-out that she can’t read this one. Dean sighs over her mental wandering, putting his hands out for Sam; he really loves to (try to) hold him as of late, though the boy is not as much a babe as little Jo. Because as always, Dean happens to have a real fondness for those who are too small to protect themselves, finds a sort of purpose found in safeguarding them. Missouri doesn’t need to read Dean to know it’s because of Sam vanishing that night, so many years ago, that he finds solace in comforting a child smaller than him.  
  
Even at that age, the ripple effect laps up everyone in this family.  
  
Sam stares at Dean’s arms for a long time, and then slaps them away.  
  
As much as Missouri wants to lecture the small boy on his manners (Dean’s energy goes sour, goes cold with hurt, and Missouri wants to react on his behalf), she knows it’s pointless to be disappointed in someone who had been sitting in a den of darkness for so long; he’s a clueless little thing, and she has no doubts that the scratchy bed he’d shown her was… ’ _home_ ’. A place of isolation until the yellow-eyed man came along and fed him its vein-tapped drug. A home without a foundation, unless you count the rickety old walls due to be condemned. She hurries to stand, ushering the two of them before Sam follows through with his sudden, impulsive thought of jumping at Dean and trying to scratch his face. His bouts of violence haven’t quite vanished with the lust for blood, and Sam’s a live wire, unsure what to do with himself now that he’s out of the night and into the daytime.  
  
“Come now, come now,” she says, “Mary’s making you boys something to eat. I bet you’re both wanting something good to fill you up.” It’s a nice day out today. Perhaps John will relent, allow Dean and Sam to play outside and get a little sunshine. If he’s not planning to… well, Mary and Missouri easily outrank him, as much as he likes to play up the tough guy card. Even now, as she passes by the scratchy hunter, she can see him watching Sam like a hawk — all uneasiness, as if Sam will snap and the room will go red with blood. She can’t entirely blame him, not with the power she’d felt within that teeny tiny body, but… well, a  _plane_ could crash right on top of them at  _any_ moment, couldn’t it? She has no time to entertain his miserable concerns.  
  
Everything comes with risk.  
  
Sitting at the old table in the kitchen area, she skips breakfast for herself and instead observes Sam rip apart dry pancakes he’d taken off Dean’s plate before the other child could apply syrup. Big brother makes a face and scoots his chair away from the fluffed massacre, dousing what remains of his meal in maple sugariness, but a smile curls his lips regardless.  
  
“He’s eating really good,” he says proudly, as if it’s something to be awarded something for. Missouri doesn’t look at Mary, but she feels the energy around her brighten, warm and sentimental. And to her right, John’s energy goes a shade lighter, too. Just a shade, but it causes her to smile behind her coffee cup. This is how pieces are glued back together. Her only fear is that something will come along — something that had burned down their home in Lawrence — and play arsonist again. None of them want to say as much, but it’s there, that  _sensation_ that they’re standing on the edge of some great event, just waiting for something to try and snap at their Achilles heels.  
  
Sam plucks up apple slices from an old bowl and crunches through them like a starving animal, which is not that hard to compare; with that unruly hair and the juice on his face, he looks like a feral boy plucked up out of the wood and forced into clothes. He licks his fingers as Mary puts a hand to her cheek, looking concerned for the rate he’s moving. Poor thing is exhausted, concerning herself with her family, sleeping so little for fear of the helplessness found there. And for good reason. What a world, to have one son gone one moment, returned the next in such a state of disrepair. Usually, it’s the very opposite, something she had thought she learned less than five years ago. Mary’s invasive thoughts creep into Missouri’s head regardless, all anxious. What if he won’t get better? What if something’s out there waiting? What if they try to take him again?  
  
Mary says to Sam, so soft, “You should… probably go a little slow. You’ll give yourself a stomach ache.”  
  
Now, Missouri sees the problem before it even happens - if they had been has keen as she, they’d have felt it like a coiling snake around little Sam’s figure. Mary reaches for the plate, and Sam’s gaze shoots to the motion with the intensity of a wolf on its game; without restraint he slashes his little nails across the back of her hand, hard enough to draw blood as he hisses a wordless protest. John slams forward and his body goes rigid with that damnable  Missouri almost yanks him by the ear for it, but Dean’s also moving, grabbing a lock of Sam’s brown hair and pulling it. The little trill of pain has Sam twirling around in his seat to face Dean.  
  
“ _Argh_!!” he howls, mouth wide and sound harsh with intention. Dean is bristled indignantly, John’s hand pressed roughly on the table.  
  
They all linger there, still and silent. Sam hugs the bowl of apple slices, daring anyone to try to take them.  
  
Dean’s chest puffs. “You don’t hurt mom!”  
  
“Dean - ” Mary starts.  
  
“No! I’m not lettin’ Sammy go anywhere ever again, but he’s gotta know!” He turns toward Sam jabs his finger into Sam’s shoulder, freckled face splotched with something reserved but just as vibrant as Sam’s since then fizzled anger. Sam just stares at the table, frowning down deeply at the chipped wood. “You don’t hurt mom! She’s your mom, and you treat her nice! I don’t care if you scratch me 'cus I’m your brother, but you don’t scratch up your mom, or I’ll kick your butt! I’ll kick it so hard, you’ll go fly through the sky-”  
  
“Dean, don’t threaten your brother, or you’ll  _both_  be in trouble,” Mary chides sharply.  
  
Dean deflates. Energy’s spent up, de-saturated, and Missouri lets them all work through it. It’s not her business, how they tape themselves together again. She only helps when she’s needed, when she’s asked for. She simply takes a sip among the doubtful and frustrated thoughts blowing through the windless room, feeling time tick by, beat by beat.  
  
Sam makes a sniffling noise, wet and sudden, and by the time their attention is drawn back to him, he’s softly blubbering, fat tears dripping down his face into the bowl. And they all just watch him, poor spotlit child, hands still firm around the dish though it shakes in his fingers now; he doesn’t make much noise, hair in his face and cheeks red with - Missouri reads humiliation? Fear of reprecussion?  
  
He feels trapped.  
  
But, for Missouri, the most painful sensation of all is that Sam doesn’t know that these people actually love him.

* * *

  
Missouri leaves into the next room to go talk with Mom and Dad (which really isn’t much of them leaving, because he can still see Dad and Mom as they talk about whatever), and Dean sits patiently with his brother; Sam’s stopped crying at least, though not thanks to any words of comfort or hugs or anything of the sort that Dean’s offered, and that - that bothers Dean greatly. He’s used to being able to comfort Jo with head patting or backrubs or anything like that, but him and Mom, they haven’t been able to stop Sam. He just eventually runs out of tears maybe, or maybe makes his head hurt like crazy, so he’s smart enough to give it up. Either way… the apples are all browned now in the bowl, which at least has been finally released… though Sam doesn’t abandon it completely. Maybe he wants to eat it. Dean guesses that would be okay. He’s eaten browned apples before and it was fine. He glances over to the doorway his mom and dad disappeared off to, momentarily icy in his stomach when he catches John’s wary gaze looking back at him.  
  
But Dad’s gaze softens, and he gives a small smile and nod. And Dean returns it.  
  
At least Dad’s not freaking out as much anymore, even if he was mad, too. At Sam.  
  
Which Dean’s starting to feel bad for, even if what he did was wrong. You can’t just scratch your mom. She’s important, you know? Super crazy important, and without her, who knows what could have happened. Without her, Dean isn’t sure what he would do. Make his own breakfasts and learn to tie his own shoes and be the one to love himself? Looking at Sam now, distant and silent, he wonders if he would have been like his brother. But then - someone took his brother. And for that, Dean always will be angry. That shoulda’ never happened. Mom shoulda’ had Sam. Everyone should have.  
  
Whoever took him, they’re the ones who made this stuff happen. If Dad ever shows him how to use that gun… He’d blast 'em all away. Like in his Saturday morning cartoons. This is real life, he thinks. This is bigger than G.I. Joe. He knows it’s not just a game - it never was, especially when it came down to his father.  
  
A soft little sigh sounds off next to him, as Sam stares at the sad excuse for fruit he’d so viciously safeguarded. Dean watches him intently, wondering what that was about; what’s with that weird look? Sammy’s got this forehead wrinkle that takes up the space between his eyebrows, his dull stare gazing in a way Dean can’t place. The child’s small fingers skim along the lip of the bowl, a thoughtful sort of motion. And he can’t help but try to ease back into something easier and kinder, after his small blow-up from earlier. “So there’s stuff goin’ on in your fuzzy head?”  
  
Sam glances up at Dean with a guarded way about his shoulders, which hunker up closer to his pointy ears.  
  
Dean leans back, putting his hands behind his head. “Don’t worry about it. I’m… sorry, a'right? I shouldn’t yell at you. You don’t get any of it yet.”  
  
The kid… Dean’s not really sure he understands any of what he’s saying. Maybe that’s another issue altogether, not knowing what people are saying to him. He thinks about Sam sitting up and shaking him awake for a drink of water, though, and thinks that either way, this is all totally doable. They’ve got this in the bag. He just… needs to be more patient. Or try to be. And Sam just needs to be Sam until he understands. And he will. Dean hesitantly reaches out, shrinking only at the way Sam turns his head and leans away defensively in a sharp motion - maybe he’s scared Dean’ll really make due on his words and kick his butt. Instead he just puts his hand in Sam’s mangy head of hair and scratches back and forth soothingly.  
  
Instead of slapping or scratching at him, Sam’s hands clench the edges of the table.  
  
“… Hey. You’re gonna be okay, Sammy,” he says. “You wanna play or something? We can play a game. I got some toys.”  
  
Well. No point in waiting for an answer. Giving one more sturdy rustling of Sammy’s hair, he hops down and considers his options.   
  
“Right. Toys. Something easy. Y'can’t run around, because Missouri says you’re still kind of sick. You’re a pain in the butt, bro.”  
  
Teaching him a board game seems like trouble waiting to happen. But they could… draw, or something. Maybe watch some television? He winks at Sam and moves into the hallway, speaking as he goes, “I know, I know, I got just the right thing; you’ll be great in no time, Sam. I’ll pinky promise you, you’ll play catch-up easy. Us Winchesters are cool like that.”  
  
Sitting in the quiet, John sneaking glances from the hall, Sam watches Dean vanish into the living room.  
  
His lips purse, hazel stare sinking tiredly toward the table; whispering hoarsely, testing the weight, he asks no one:   
  
“… Cool…?”  
  
Missouri shivers in the corridor as a veil of black smoke circles the sky above and drifts harmlessly away into the trees beyond the safe house.  
  
Sam just sneezes.


End file.
